


Saffron

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal, Exhibitionism, M/M, Rimming, angbang, dub-con, strong drug references, this is filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4660563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon, high as a kite.  This is just 100% a terrible excuse for Angbang PWP.  </p><p>Please read the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saffron

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Trust me, I don’t own it.  
> Rating: NC-17 for real though.  
> Warnings: Dub-con, drug references, exhibitionism, rimming, and our little Maia, bent over as usual.  
> A/N: Angband parties getting wild. I literally have no excuse for this one. It is filthy.

* * *

   
And this is how it goes:  
  
The air rushes out his teeth in a clatter.   
  
Mairon’s jaw is locked, and he sits low bent in a chair.  The goblet in his hand is listing to the left, the trailed remnants of wine spilling out the rim. It trails down his arm.  
  
‘One more glass,’ His Master had said, his lips pulling into the wideness of a grin.  
  
The burn of jeering throbs at his ears.  
  
‘Just one more single glass.’  
  
And he had – ever the loyal. Ever the valiant, admirable he was – Mairon had grasped that goblet between his fingertips, his nails pressed into the gold, and swung it back in the most beguiling of a smile.  
  
And somehow, he had missed it – that curling twinkle in Melkor’s eye.  That slow short twist of something just everso more bitter that hung in notes upon the wine, as it poured in swallows down his throat.  
  
It had tasted like sweet curdled roses from Yavanna’s fields, and the warmth had pooled into his stomach amongst good company – the previous ten glasses he had already downed.  
  
And yet now:  
  
And yet now, somehow –  
  
And yet now the air bursts out his lung in a _clatter_ , and it scrapes against his teeth.  The rush of whistles whirl against Mairon’s ears, and Melkor is sat unto his left, slouched back in iron throne.  
  
The Orcs surge in splendour below the dais.  And they are seated in the pits, here – for through the tunnel of Mairon’s vision he watches them flow, in a meandered black sung cloak of darkness, mottled in crimson under the glow of the fires.  
  
And Mairon is so – everso – everso _completely_ high.  
  
For his breath surges in a _clatter_ and his eyes peel _wide_ upon the crowd.  
  
“You gave me something.” He breathes, finally – puffs the realisation out upon a breath. And through the odd stilt over his vision, Mairon tilts his head unto the left.   
  
Melkor is watching him, the Vala’s eyes merciless and stone – and yet there is the smatter of a laugh that builds behind his Master’s eyes.  Mairon can almost taste it, in a flutter – in a curling tickle along his ribcage.  
  
The laugh bursts out his own mouth in Melkor’s stead, lost in the shadows of the roaring of the Orcs.  
  
“You _gave me_ something!” He repeats, his voice raised over the din – and through, his shoulders shake, and Melkor grin widens all along.  
  
“I did no such thing.” The Vala rumbles – and through the blurring twist of Mairon’s vision curling before his eyes, he watches as Melkor runs a pointed tongue over the cracks of his thin bottom lip.  
  
And Marion feels as though his heart might burst right out.  For whatever was in the wine begins to take effect, and he can taste the all-too-familiar flicker of anxiousness grip inside his chest.  The feeling grips at him – in a shatter of clenched teeth, in the dizzied flurry of tingles that now needle down his legs.  
  
“ _Eru_ ,” Mairon gasps, turning to stare down at the tremble in his palms. “Melkor, this feels _divine_.”  
  
The Vala does not respond, staring at him through hooded eyes – and the colours of the firelight seem ever so too bright, spindling along the dank ebony air that hangs thick across the pit.  
  
And that is when he hears it – there – loud over the mess.  
  
For above the din of Orcs and slurs and coddled, spilling wine there shrieks the lone breaking of a call – of a high-pitched, squeaking stress.  
  
Mairon looks up, his eyebrows raised, and squints along the crowd.  His eyelids flicker yet through the tip he spots it – the Elf maid upon the table. She is bent, hair flipping forward upon her hands, as the rough hands of an Orc pinch up at her thighs.  
  
And Mairon watches, breathless for a moment, as her mouth sags open in a gape, the muted bouncing of her hair a rustle, of mottled, singing chestnut black; her arms scrabbling upon the granite of the tabletop.  The whine peppers across the pits, and it wafts straight to his ears.  
  
And in that moment, there, he is struck.  
  
Frozen.  With an _idea_.  
  
As his eyes flicker over from the wideness of Melkor’s legs, to the curving sag of the Elf’s lips, shrieking open in a gape.   
  
And yes.  
  
Yes, why had he not thought of it before?  
  
“And where are you going, Mairon?” A voice rumbles at his back; for he is standing, now.  
  
And feet caught halfway in their pace towards the steps, Mairon pauses:  
  
“I am to stake a claim.”  
  


* * *

  
The pit glows burning orange as Mairon makes his way through the crowd.   
  
Something of their Lord’s power hangs through the room – some spluttering, damp heat.  Mairon can see it in the flickers; in the tainting the faces of their legion – and in the copper cast upon the walls.  
  
He climbs upon the table.  
  
“Are you ready for a show?” He yells, as he peers out at the faces below.  
  
The question is called out upon a blue-tipped puff – and Mairon’s body hums, a new grin singing at his lips. The shudder of his bones is almost audible, yet it is swallowed under the roaring of the crowd – of the Orcs as they _cheer_ , noticing him there, as curdles of mead spill from their mugs.  
  
Mairon is already hard.  
  
Through the flicker of the flames, he watches their eyes light up in glee – a twisted joy, made of toothy grins that meld into the firelight that swallows across the air. Or, that could just be the drugs.  
  
The elf at his front is shrinking, now, low upon the bench.  
  
 – But she _won’t_ be. Not soon at least; for he is Mairon. He is brilliant, pearling light, and his charms are the beating pull of time.    
  
Inescapable.  
  
And with a leer he reaches down with a hand, and drags her up by the hair – straggly. Matted. He can tell how long her stay from flinching shock inside her eyes.  
  
She is new.  Unsung, and _terrified_.  
  
He will have to break her in.  
  
He wonders if his Master is watching. For with a powdered breath that speaks of poison, Mairon crushes them together, his hands tangling behind her head.  
  
It is tongues. Slipping tongues and pliant lips – her eyes are glossed and fair.  There is a tang upon his skin now, some delicious curling taint; and it seeps out of the pores of his neck.  He watches as her eyelashes droop into a hood, lulled under the spell.  
  
Mairon has always loved that effect – the gentle sinking.  The slump of shoulders, as they give in.   
  
And he dips his lips, to whisper the instructions along her neck:  
  
“Tilt your head back, my precious, and look upon your Lord.” He holds her head up by the hair, her face tipped just past his head.  Angling her in his Master’s _direction_ – allowing her there to _see_.   
  
And his vision cuts, then, like the cool, cracked flickers of a whip – and of next he is aware his teeth are digging into collar.  
  
Her cheeks taste like rose blossoms, and her neck tacks strong of salt.  
  
The feeling is rushing through his veins now, as they watch, from below, in married glinting glares of delight that send the pleasure pulsing to his groin.  He melts at the elf’s sweet front, pressed against her breasts.  
  
And he is so hard. He is _so hard_.  
  
Yet as Mairon moves again to take capture of her mouth – his lips snarling, his teeth bared – a hand grasps firm and painful in his hair.  
  
He is wrenched back.  
  
“Wha–” He splutters, for a moment at a loss, as the world spins.  
  
And then, the coiling voice hits him, angry, snaring, as the scent curls up his nose:  
  
“ _Enough_.”  
  
_Melkor_.  A musk of curled ashes and molten rock; his Master smells like the centre of the earth. The very, utter _mid_.  
  
Mairon breathes out in roses, as the hand pulls tighter to his hair.   
  
“And for what do you plan to continue here, little Maia of mine?” Melkor’s voice is low; and yet the query is a trick.  
  
For the question is a light laced threat spat through smiling teeth – and Mairon is too far gone. It slips past him without a notice, darting right past his ear.  His eyes squint in a smirk, and he is callous in his reply:  
  
“Why, my Lord, I am to take her upon the table.  I am but to stake a claim.”  
  
“A _claim_?” Melkor repeats; and his voice is raised in something singing of surprise. The hand tightens in his hair, as another wraps around his throat – pulling him higher.  On display for the crowd.  The girl keels at his front, and the strain of his neck smells like crimson – of curling, winding blood.  It spills from his lips in a tumultuous groan.  
  
“Mairon, you have no claim.” The voice continues, sharp; and Melkor leans in to his ear, steering him up almost to tiptoes.  
  
“As you belong to _me_.”  
  
There is the skating line of fingers that traces down Mairon’s waist; a creasing burn of pleasure. His cock jumps in a terrible twitch that Mairon, stretched in that fell arch in front of the crowd, is sure that they can all see, straining through the black cut of his leggings.  
  
He pants; and his breath is gold.  
  
Meandered.   
  
“ _Yes_.” He husks, and tilts his head back to Melkor’s shoulder.  
  
The Vala’s spare hand palms down his leg – and for Mairon it is inadvertent.  He spreads his thighs, there, his head a-tilt – crown crushing back on Melkor’s chest.  
  
And he wishes for it, suddenly, like he has never wished for thing before.  
  
In a twist of questionable bearings, Mairon twirls within Melkor’s arms.  His hand fits snug under Melkor’s collar, the pair towering upon the bench – and from behind him, the shaking elf maid sinks out of the way.  
  
But Mairon’s mind is on other things, now.  Iron things, and blackened hand.  It is Melkor that he wants; so burning bright he can hardly stand – as the thrilling buzz of that drug – of that concoction – spins through his mind.  
  
“Take me here.” He whispers, the touch of lips light under the crowd.  The Orcs are crawling with it – that intoxication – he can feel the baiting on their breath.  They want it, just like he.  
  
Melkor stares down at him through the musk, expression deep, breath fuller than the crawling creep of night.  
  
“My Lord, please take me _here_.”  
  
Melkor seems to think about it for a moment; Mairon can see the Vala’s eyes flicker down his neck. And Mairon tilts his head back further to expose the skin, leaning back against his Master’s arms – and he parts his lips like a _song_.  
  
It is the bait; for he knows well how much his Lord loves to _bite_. He dangles, loose as the floating locks of his hair.  
  
“As you wish.”  
  
The assent feels like the cool wash of spring – as Melkor’s blue eyes are wide.  And the cut of his cheekbones is so angled, the thinness of his lips is so _inviting_. Mairon’s vision swirls before him in a rock; and were he not held up by Vala’s hand, then, he would have tipped – off the table and upon the stone.  
  
His head may have cracked right open.  
  
And yet it is all that he needs to hear.  In a burst of bright, mad energy, Mairon thrusts himself upon Melkor’s lips, as the arms tighten around his waist.  
  
Their kiss is scalding – teeth and tongue and desperate dug fingers, biting into hair.  Below them, the crowd explodes in a cheering wrath – an _anger_.  And Mairon can feel the cool wash of someone’s drink, sloshed against his leg through the excitement.  
  
It spurs him on.  
  
His fingers card down Melkor’s neck – for they must see them.  They must see, and understand.  
  
And maybe it is the trilling of the drug stuck under his skin, or the curving dampness of the navy clouded sky. But he feels ravenous and loose, and the idea here – of Melkor taking him, upon the table, of staring out at their _shocked faces_ –  
  
It is a _need_.  
  
“ _Please_.” He repeats, delusional and wild. “Here, my Lord. It must be _here_.”  
  
And in a flurry he is turned and shoved down to the bench.  Melkor swoops upon him like a wave – all crashing, fraying edges, the cool cut of his Master’s breath melding upon his collar.   
  
Mairon groans, and the sound is lost under the crush.  The slick of excitement thrills through him, a choke so strong it is almost mad.  
  
And _yes_. For _yes_ ; this is it. 

Not soft breasts but the callous scraping of fingers along his back, and Melkor’s hard, heavy breaths wet along his nape.  He needs it all. Right in front of them.

Right where he kneels.

Eyes plunging into the revelling faces of the crowd, Mairon digs his fingers into the knots of his silk tunic in a scramble, and lets the fabric fall off his shoulders, sink to the bench. It flows downwards in a billow, like the remainders of his dignity.  Afloat, upon the air. 

He can see their hunger, there, in the widened eyes that rake down the taut muscle of his chest, a kind of wonder for his form – immaculate.

For in comparison to their scars; he is built otherworldly. 

And where Melkor is thick muscular bulk, Mairon’s shoulders taper thin towards his waist – a perfect slant. And not a scrap of fat does he glean, there; as he – from afar – appears _taller_. Though bent there under his Master’s towered form, it is apparent Mairon reaches only to the Vala’s shoulders, his red hair a-sway in the heat of the pit.

And though the bustling, and the arm swinging, and the mead; Mairon can hear the voices lurch in snippets from below.

‘– Is this actually happening?’

‘He won’t go through with it, Bolg, you can look –’

‘Where am I?’

But they make no sense. His head is swamped.

And – and Melkor is tugging down his leggings with his teeth? 

Mairon can feel the distinct scrape of lips, dragged along the sticky skin of his hip.

And fuck.  Fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck_.

He must mewl, then, for Melkor pauses, and a voice floats up and over to his ear.

“You best not let me down there, Precious,” A hand curves over his ass, dipping between his legs – as Melkor is wrenching his leggings the rest of the way down, in a tug that sends Mairon flat upon the bench.  In a clatter. “I _quite_ expect your screams.”

Melkor speaks with mirth, as fingers part between his cheeks:  “Right the way to the walls.”

And there, Melkor _ducks_ his head – and Mairon defames the name of all that is holy.

It is swirling.

The curse rings along the crowd, in an echo.  It spreads through the legion like a yawn.

Melkor’s tongue works over the puckered skin of his hole, his hands digging hard into Mairon’s thighs – and it is glorious. It is glorious and foreign and fey. The drug spins him downwards in a heave even as Melkor’s hands drag at his hips, pulling him back up to the light: Mairon is keening. 

He is unsure for quite how long.

The first nudge of fingers comes as a shock – a _stab_ , that sends some yearning heat building up between his thighs, and stutters out his hips like a whip.

“Head _up_ , Lieutenant.” Melkor advises, from behind. “One must face the legion at all times.  It is a sign of weakness, there, gorgeous – look into your crowd, for they look now up to you.”

The instruction is simple.

Melkor twists his index finger down into a hook.

And – “ _There_. _Yes_ , my Lord.” Bingo.  And as though pulled by string, Mairon’s head raises to the command – ever the Admirable.  Through hooded eyes he peers, traces his flickering vision down across the rows and rows of arching heads, through the glints of devilish teeth.

And he can see that leering in their eyes; his men – unfocused.  Their delicious, coiling lust. 

They are jealous; he can see. And so they should be, for their Vala adds a third finger, and Mairon is but helpless, drawn and _strung_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” pipes an Orc from below, his voice thick and growled in awe; and Mairon can think of no better sentiment.  He tips forward in an arch, his mouth stretching open in a silent, widened gape – as his hips cant to the rhythm – to his Master’s pumping song.

“You are not _looking_ , Lieutenant.” Melkor growls. And before Mairon has a chance to react, the Vala’s left hand is wrenched again through his hair, dragging his head up where Mairon moves to sag.  His eyes roll, delirious, and choking thick with pleasure, and his Master continues: “You did ask for this, after all.”

 _Almost_ , Mairon moves to say – though the word is lost upon his tongue. Instead, a whine spills down his front, and he fancies he can feel Melkor husk in approval from down behind his thighs.

It is a callous beat, then, that Melkor begins the thrust into him, the Vala’s fingers wide and stretching. In a stab they brush firm against his prostate, and each hit breaks a mewl from Mairon’s lips as he sucks desperately upon his bottom lip, scared of drooling down his chin – scared of yet quite giving in.

Somewhere through the winding madness of the crowd, Mairon locks eyes with smoking ember of the Lord of Balrogs. Gothmog is staring, seemingly unwilling, lips parted through a grimace of distaste.  And in another world, Mairon may have laughed. Even here the Balrog is still staring, and Mairon moves to lick his lips –

Another firm stab against his prostate, however, sends his head arching back into a prayer:

“Melkor!  Oh _fuck_ …!”

“Enjoying yourself?”

It is not so much a question.

“ _Please_ –”

“It is not that easy, Maia. You know what it is I want.”

But Mairon does not.

“Get the whore off the table.” Melkor gripes – and: wait … what?

“She’s still _here_?”

In confusion, Mairon tilts down his head: and so she is.  Curled, in some quaking ball that smells just far too … _fresh_ for Mairon’s liking, the elf maid is peeking at them through horrified eyes.

And Melkor stops, then, like he is waiting on him.  Mairon flounders.

“Go … make yourself useful as a dish maid.” He slurs – and the order is damned weak as he remains, on hands and knees in front his Master, three fingers in his ass.  Not his most becoming of positions. 

To her benefit, the girl is not stupid enough to wait around.

Ready to state the obvious, Mairon turns – but Melkor shoves his chin hard against the granite.

“Fuck –” He fluffs, into the stone, half in pain, half grinning through the clear show of possession.

“If you insist.” Melkor drawls, dragging his fingers out of Mairon in a slick. “Let it never be said I do not do things for you, Maia.”

 _After drugging me, of course_.

Mairon holds in the retort.

And Melkor slides in between his legs, then, cock slick and stretching – a memory of smells, of tastes, of _fire_.  It is a swirling of sensation, something so utterly, deeply fey that the moan stutters from Mairon’s mouth too truthful, and wafts along the crowd.

The hands tug tighter in his hair, and his head pulls up to meet them – as his eyes fall slung and his lip gloss, glittering in saliva from the chewing of his teeth.

Locking eyes with one of the Orcs, Mairon spreads himself further, and pushes _back_.

“Praise Eru.” The Orc swears, staring up at them in reverence.

Melkor’s grunt is loud enough to tremble the very stones of the foundation – and Mairon is rewarded with a low, Valarin curse.  He grins. His teeth are grinding.

And – oh fuck –

“ _That’s it_ – ah –”

“Fuck him harder, my Lord, he’s still talking too much.”  A call trails from the crowd.

And – what?

“Gothmog I – _swear_ – on – on the _Valar_ –when I get down from here – ahh _fuck_ –”

From somewhere below, under the rumble of a grunt that sends a tremble through the pits – Mairon catches a smatter of sniggers.

“Needs something in his mouth –”

Oh for –

Mairon thrusts himself further up on his arms and scowls – as Melkor immediately pushes his face back down into the stone.

“Fuck you Bolg –” Mairon gasps into the granite – though the effect is ruined further as he breaks off into a keen that is muffled into the bench.  Melkor hits the spot too hard, as for a moment his vision blanks out to white.

And –

Yet there is something so freeing about the move, something so open and naked and _raw_. Melkor parts his legs the wider, then, in delicious anticipation, and Mairon tilts his hips in a reflex. The heat drums tight within his groin, swirling and unnatural, and mostly assuredly much too strong.

Melkor takes Mairon slow: pelvis crushing to the hilt.  Bent and _splayed_ across the table, as the burning yells of the Orcs slur livid in their ears. 

“ _Shit_ … shit …” He breathes, without thought, the curses not much more than a whisper, barely heard. “Melkor… I can’t …”

He can’t … he can’t _what_?  He can’t _wait_ – he can’t breathe, he can’t seem to _stop_ –

And the Vala is groaning behind him in response, a deep and thralling sound that trembles through Mairon’s bones and pushes him higher, as the Vala’s thrusts tighten; until Mairon is rocking forward on his fingers, until his hair is floating with the force –

Mairon moans, conscious of their crowd, and drags his head up as he slams his hips back in stutters, spurring Melkor on –

– And he is _gulping_.

 _Drowning_ in it.  The noise. The reverence. That _burn_ –

He is splendidly un _done_.

It is wordless. He comes with but a whining great _groan_ that rolls in waves across the crowd, and licks up the walls.  Arching in a spasm through the familiar gush between his legs, Melkor’s thrusts keep their rhythm, milking him through the coil –

Mairon looks down, and sees splinters of fire. He is glowing.

Ethereal. 

“Beautiful,” A voice spits from behind him, and it takes Mairon a few moments to realise it is Melkor, lost as he is through the high. 

Melkor squashes his face back into the granite and begins to pound – the raucous encouragement of their audience increases ever more.  They are yelling things now, in a slur, some terrible, rawling instructions – _bite him there, My Lord, shove his face into the stone, fuck him raw, make him bleed_ – and who –

Who ever need instruct _him_ –

And yet his Master seems impervious, as though it matters not; and Mairon’s hands chalk beside his head, gripping onto nothing.

It is in the deep final slams that taste of steel and the permeance of ash that Melkor comes – a fitful, rumbled groan that leaves Mairon’s noises sounding pale, that shakes the very foundations of the rock underfoot, unsettles the mantle below –

And Mairon is filled with that sensation he always feels after Melkor has released, that keen, steady trickle of something foreign, exquisite, and _whole_. For it paints there through his veins like a lacquer; and it shines him again in that _gold_.

He is a-fray. He is _shaking_.

Melkor is stilled, and Mairon cannot move.  The drug seems to have lasted just as long as his orgasm; and already he can feel it starting to drain.

His teeth, still, here they clench.

And Melkor’s slips off him to fix up his clothes – almost without waiting for breath.  Mairon wants to ask where his own have gone, yet he can feel the rags drenched under his knees.  He is naked, spent.  And the high – the high – is plummeting.

It is in some curling stench of ash that Melkor rights himself at Mairon’s back – again stoic – again silent. The crowd roars in a fervour; but his Master says naught.

And through the tunnel of Mairon’s vision he watches them flow, there, in a meandered black sung cloak of darkness, mottled in crimson under the glow of the fires.  The Orcs surge in splendour below the table.

The rush of whistles whirl against Mairon’s ears, and Melkor is again sat behind him upon the dais, slouched back in that iron throne.

The wine is long dried on his arm, a sticky peel that looks like blood.  And Mairon’s jaw is locked, as he kneels low bent across the table.

And yet somehow, he had missed it – that curling twinkle in Melkor’s eye.  That mirth that spurred the laughter that is now absent from his lips – as the cool tricking trail of the drug spills from his veins.

And he bends his head. Alone.

Silent; coming down.

As there: the air rushes out his teeth in a lull. 


End file.
